KaraokeFanboy Weekly #3: The "When the Walls Fall Down" Issue

KaraokeFanboy Weekly vol. 1, no. 3: "When the Walls Fall Down" Issue

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I decided to do something differently this issue and precede the content with my video of choice, so perhaps you could listen to the music while you read. I'm not going to promise a Dark Side of the Rainbow experience, but if something you see happens to synchronize thematically with something you hear, I'll definitely take credit for it.



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I spotted this piece of "urban art" a few weeks ago in downtown Phoenix and snapped a picture of it -- good thing, too, because it's since been covered. When I lived in Fullerton, I was wildly amused by taggers' monikers; around my apartment complex, punks dubbing themselves "TipC" and "Book" marked their territory all over the place, and I grew to appreciate the irony of their alter egos. Was their graffiti less gang-related and more social commentary, emphasizing the rampant drug use and illiteracy afflicting today's youth? Only their homies know for sure.

In this case, the message is clear: "2lavery" is a double-edged sword. On one hand, in the simplest terms, we define slavery as being forced to do something you don't want to do. Yet, perceiving it from another perspective, slavery is also being in a position where you can't do something you want to do. I presume the young person that tagged this fence hasn't been forced into slavery as we know it historically, yet he undoubtedly feels trapped by his surroundings, essentially enslaved to circumstance.

I don't necessarily condone rampant graffiti, but I can only imagine, in my own romantic way, that, to that young man, the hissing of that spray paint can sounded like the clanging of a sledgehammer against the bricks around his neighborhood, the strokes of those lines like the seams of a tunnel he's slowly but assuredly digging to escape. The truth is in his tool of choice. It's a spray can . . . and someday, maybe he will.

*****

Ever since 2006, I've been following news that comic book writer/artist Frank Miller was producing a new graphic novel called Holy Terror, Batman, featuring the Caped Crusader against Al Qaeda. Despite my mixed feelings on Miller's latest works, I was looking forward to this one; his best (and arguably the best) Batman story ever, The Dark Knight Returns, contrasts Batman's world with the realities of the Reagan era Cold War, and I thought Holy Terror might parallel those possibilities in a contemporary context. Alas, according to Robot 6, apparently he'll complete the project sans Batman, replacing the Dark Knight with a new superhero called the Fixer. To paraphrase, Miller feels the story pushes Batman too far outside of the realm of his inherent character, which makes sense considering how different the comic book world is from the real world . . .

. . . which I thought was the point. Miller's taking the lazy way out, and I think I know why. In comics, at least traditional superhero comics, battles between good and evil always have a definitive end. If the Joker plans to poison the Gotham City reservoir, when Batman foils the plan and throws the Clown Prince of Crime back into Arkham Asylum, the story's over. In real life, our war against terror could go on generations . . . and Miller couldn't find a way to let an iconic character like Batman cope with that. If Al Quaeda attacked Gotham, and Batman pursued them to the Middle East and even confronted and defeated Osama bin Laden, it certainly wouldn't end the terrorist leader's evil influence in the world -- and Batman would have to live with that. Further, the reader would have to live with that, an uncomfortable prospect for any writer/artist hoping to make a statement on a contemporary issue.

Personally, I was eager to see if Batman would conclude that vigilantism can't combat terrorism, if he'd resign to America's perpetual occupation in Iraq as a viable, temporary solution. The Dark Knight has fought plenty of eclectic villains and won by deconstructing their dementia, but he's never fought an ideology with global influence. Now, with a new, throw-away hero in Batman's stead, Miller can do whatever he wants without fear of consequence, without shattering the context of a character's limitations. The Fixer can shoot bin Laden in the head, end of story. Even if Batman were capable of such assassination, he would know that it wouldn't solve the problem of terrorism overall, and now Miller is free of that burden. I'll reserve judgment until I read the story, but I'm certainly approaching it now with more reservations than before.

On long road trips to Comic Con or the Alternative Press Expo in San Francisco, my small press partner Brent and I would often pontificate on what we'd do with landmark characters like Superman and Batman had we a year at the reigns of their respective comics. For Batman, we brainstormed a series of short stories emphasizing the weaknesses of his vigilante-style war on crime; one of my contributions was a tale called "Slaves and Masters," in which Batman combats prostitution. If Gotham City is really as bad as they'd lead us to believe, prostitution would have to be a rampant issue, yet I've never read a story that tackles it directly. In the end, Batman would realize that a pimp's psychological hold over a prostitute isn't as easy to break as the guy's jaw might be. While Bats saves one woman from the lifestyle, he certainly can't save them all -- the problem is too deeply rooted in the city's infrastructure, and indeed in history itself. At the end of the story, Alfred tries to console Batman and unwittingly challenges our hero to reevaluate their relationship . . .

ALFRED: Is there anything I can fetch for you, Master Bruce?
BATMAN: No, thank you, Alfred . . . Actually, there is one thing.
ALFRED: Yes, Sir?
BATMAN: It's just Bruce. No more "Master." From now on, just -- call me Bruce.
ALFRED: . . . Of course . . . Bruce . . .

The lesson, the one Miller is so deftly dodging, is sometimes we have to solve the problem at home before we venture abroad.

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Finally, I'd be remiss not to mention what's been happening in my own backyard this week, namely the SB 1070 protests in downtown Phoenix. I've been reevaluating my mentality on the issue since the debate began months ago, and this week I realized that pundits and broadcast commentary have been analysing the issue in a terribly impersonal way. I certainly understand -- and often demand -- objective reporting, but the way certain news personalities talk about immigrants is the way parents sometimes talk about their children, like they weren't in the room. They're here. They're listening. They need to be included in the conversation, whether you condone their presence here or not. Acknowledging their plight to leave Mexico may just open the doors for a process that enables them to achieve citizenship legally and expediently someday.

Until that day arrives, I wrote a piece for the SB 1070-themed night at Conspire Open Mic last month (where I'll be the featured poet this Wednesday, August 4).

Immigrant Envy

I envy the so-called illegal immigrant,
because I've never so wanted to somewhere
that I'd endure the distinction: "illegal."
My very presence, a crime,
any participation, a threat,
the prejudice, preferable to where I've come from.
I envy his potential for perpetual appreciation,
the realization that any moment could be his last.
I've never had a dream so dire,
I preserved it through nightmare,
pursued it in every waking hour,
under high desert suns that rise and set like a pendulum,
ticking to kingdom come
or kingdom, come to me,
whoever gets there first.
I envy the illegal immigrant,
because I've never done anything so wrong
I had rights worth fighting for,
and I've never done anything so right
I was the only one left --
a man without a country,
outside legality,
fodder for pop culture punditry,
no family,
just fueled to the death by envy
to have what others were born with.
I envy him,
his ability to say,
It's totally worth it.

*****

Check KaraokeFanboy Press for the latest in stuff I've self-published, and some local events I'm participating in around Phoenix.

Can't write anymore. I'm hitting the wall.
Russ a.k.a. KaraokeFanboy

KaraokeFanboy Weekly #2: The "Like To Hear It, Here It Goes" Issue

Internet magic is permitting me to post this even as I'm attending the San Diego Comic Con right now, so while I wander among X-Men, Storm Troopers, and Ghostbusters, your daily dose of geek will have to come from . . .

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KaraokeFanboy Weekly vol. 1, no. 2: The "Like to Hear It, Here It Goes" Issue

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I'm grateful to live in a metropolis named after something. When I lived near Los Angeles, I could use its old adage, "a city of angels," to explain certain benevolent events, especially in contrast to how absolutely dismal downtown Los Angeles really is. Now, in Phoenix, I'm often experiencing examples of rebirth, just like that fiery, mythical bird, and every now and then she actually spreads her wings for me, to prove she really exists. For example, I captured this picture from the loop 202/I-10 interchange last Friday, heading to (of all places) Firestage.



A few months ago, I took a totally different picture that captured that same spirit, and even wrote a poem about it for National Poetry Month. Just goes to show, a phoenix has fiery feathers aplenty.

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That night, I saw and captured this poster, too.



I've been studying the art form of the contemporary protest sign for a few years now (in fact, I self-published a zine collecting four years' worth of anti-war protests in Los Angeles if you're interested), and this poster has all of the demonizing staples: devil's horns, swastika, Hitler-'stache. (Michael Jordan is just two away from making a bold statement of his own.) These symbols easily conjure thoughts of evil -- but have we ever established the imagery necessary to depict someone favorably? A halo could be the opposite of devil's horns . . . but the opposite of a swastika? A happy face? A rainbow? Uh, those may already be taken. And has anyone done as much good as Hitler did evil for us to warrant his facial hair worthy of sainthood? Our priorities are clear -- pointing out the problem is much easier than seeking the solution.

Interestingly, whoever designed this poster used the same image I Google-imaged and turned into this custom T-shirt. That's a KaraokeFanboy original!



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Al and Tipper Gore announced their divorce a few months ago now, long before Al's MasseuseGate, and I was absolutely dumbfounded by it. Initially, Al wanted to pursue his environment-oriented career and Tipper wanted to focus on family -- which was what I thought they were doing anyway, but with the benefit of one another's support. That something -- perhaps MasseuseGate (though CigarGate didn't shatter the Clinton franchise) -- finally broke this bond baffled me, and indicated a turning point in the already rocky age of marital fidelity. With divorce rates teetering at 50/50, when public marriages forty years deep dissolve, marriage as a whole may just go the way of the dodo. Since other events have buried this headline, I wanted to post this piece now, before it's ancient history.

The Inconvenient Truth

The Gores are getting divorced.
And like any child of divorce, the Internet wants to know,
“Mommy, Daddy – Is it my fault?”
I suppose we should be grateful.
If Al was able to juggle his marriage with inventing the Internet,
who knows what he’s capable of now that’s he’s shucked off the old ball and chain? Holographic television? Star Trek-like matter transporters? Cities on the moon? Al – the future is waiting for you to claim it.
Tipper isn’t one to sit idly, either.
Surely rappers have invented new swear words
since her last campaign against the music industry,
words like assolicious and twatastic.
Now that she doesn’t have to baby her husband’s ego anymore,
she can get back to the business of being America’s mother.

No, what they’re going to do isn’t the question –
but, after 40 years of marriage, the question is why are they doing it?
Thanks to Al Gore’s headlining running mate,
America has been unwaveringly faithful to infidelity.
America wants to know, did Al cheat?
Where’s the mistress?
But we all know the answer.
We’ve seen Al out with his other woman.
Talking about her fondly.
Brazenly buying her expensive jewelry like Oscars and Pulitzers.
He’s even said outright that she’s been getting hot and bothered for him for years. This is Mother Earth we’re talking about – the ultimate seductress.
What a slut, the way she lets men walk all over her.
Talk about everybody getting a turn.
Tipper never had a chance.

Who would? Who does, when men feel owed the world?
The inconvenient truth of the Gores’ divorce
is that everyone is his own self-righteous cause.
I see a day coming
when the cold shoulders of neglected spouses will melt and flood the earth,
when the hot air from heated arguments will rise and burn a hole in the ozone layer, when everything we’ve ever wanted finally takes that plunge
from the tips of our tongues and when we part our lips . . . apocalypse.

The Internet doesn’t come around the old neighborhood anymore.
When he does pop up, he just wants to sell me pills.

*****

All of this writing about what I've most recently seen or experienced reminds me of my favorite In Loving Color character, Calhoun Tubbs. His tag line is as topical as it is timeless: "Wrote a song about it -- like to hear it, here it goes!"



That's one cat that always tells it like it is.

I'm cheating on Mother Earth with Father Time's daughter,
Russ a.k.a. KaraokeFanboy

Goin' APE

San Francisco is the only city I’ve ever been to that charges a cover at the door. The four dollar toll at the Bay Bridge is the promise of exclusivity, like the city itself is a nightclub full of bright flashing colors and the heartbeat of bass-heavy music and strange people that would love to meet you as much as forget you in the morning. All of this is sponsored by Coca-Cola, apparently, if that big glittery billboard that towers over the skyline means anything. Fortunately, every time I’ve visited the city by the bay, I’ve had a purpose -- namely, the Alternative Press Expo, a little comic con for folks like me that make their comics and zines by hand. With APE as a pseudo-professional pivot for the weekend, one can only monkey around so much . . . but sometimes trouble finds its way to you, too.



Barreling Down the Highway

I’ve been making comics with my buddy Brent for years, but we haven’t exhibited at APE together since 2006, so I was excited for a chance to show off our respective works since then. His latest solo effort, Dog Town, is an awesome comic book; even if you don’t read comics, peruse the sketches on his blog and behold his amazing talent. Anyway, he and I rented a car from Orange County and began the northbound trek on the 5 freeway shortly after lunch on Friday afternoon. Thanks to talk radio’s obsession with Bubble Boy, the drive was entertaining enough, and even when the stench of cow country infiltrated the car, Brent and I didn’t whine one bit.

Little did we suspect that the freeway had plenty of “whine” in store for us. Just before the 580 freeway, a truck hauling huge, old-fashioned wine barrels lost one. It shattered in the road and the debris struck a lot of cars in a lot of different ways -- and we were no exception. I swerved to avoid the twisted metal, which in the white headlights looked like the macabre skeleton of a barrel, but it punctured our driver’s side front tire. We pulled over and Brent quickly put on the spare while I called our rental car place to file an incident report. We pulled over in the next closest town, Livermore, to inspect the car in better light and discovered a leak, the possibility of a damaged oil pan.



A tow company was to deliver us a new car but the closest open location was the San Francisco airport, so we killed a few hours eating at Applebee’s. When the tow truck arrived with a nice new Ford Focus, the glassy-eyed driver took his time, which by then was par for our course. Brent watched the guy eat a Lunchable -- you know, a little round piece of bologna, a little square piece of cheese, a faux Ritz cracker. Assemble. Eat. Repeat. When we finally got back on the road, we were in San Francisco within the better part of an hour, and in our hotel room at the Bay Bridge Inn by 11 p.m. When we checked in, the clerk asked if we minded the milk he was storing in our room’s refrigerator. We didn’t. We were utterly exhausted.

What A Bummer

I’ve seriously contemplated sharing this part of our weekend, because I know it’s one Brent would love to forget, but as long as I’ve had the privilege of exploring the inner city in any capacity, I’ve been fascinated by homelessness. I even wrote a comic book about, Doug Deever, Dumpster Diver. I’d like to think my interest transcends mere rubbernecking; I’m genuinely curious in the origins of homelessness, from the traditional stereotype of the shell shocked war veteran, to the strung out alcoholic, to . . . what? The question I always ask, at what point in a person’s life do they run out of loved ones willing to help? How many friends and family would I have to burn through to end up on the street, too? I know the phenomenon is by no means this simple, but in a dense city like San Francisco, where homelessness is rampant, it’s a challenge to look at them as people, and not just part of the ornate architecture. Sometimes it’s better not to.

Consider our Saturday morning, when Brent and I were strolling toward Market Street in the hopes of a Starbucks. Perhaps our minds were eager for APE as we took in the street art, from graffiti to intentional attempts at beautification. At an intersection on 7th Street, in the heart of what appeared to be a skid row, Brent and I caught sight of something I’ll never forget: two homeless folks, an old white man and a black woman, with their hands down the other’s pants. Though I could tell they had been trying to conceal themselves with their jackets, they were beyond the point of subtly, and the man especially was rocking back and forth in a ragged dance of hasty desperation.

You know what they were doing, so don’t make me say it . . . and as much as the sight was admittedly hilarious, it humanized these two people beyond the thought of normal street dressing. Perverse, sure, but no more so than any seemingly “civilized” businessman visiting a strip club or massage parlor -- but in this case, perhaps more -- cherished? In the context of urban survival, perhaps more forgiving, this moment of fleeting respite? I don’t judge them, and, as sick as it sounds, I’m grateful that I shared in that moment of raw intimacy. Beyond the preconception of begging drunks, these are still people, with just as many complicated needs as the rest of us -- and dark reflection of there but for the grace of God go I.



Similarly, several times on our way back to the hotel throughout the weekend, we passed this vintage owl pillow in a locked doorway, and by Sunday evening, I just had to take it and give it a home. What it represents -- discarded old wisdom, ironic discomfort -- epitomizes San Francisco’s homelessness perfectly. I only hope that smell comes out in the wash . . .

The Fresh Maker

Whenever I’m in San Francisco, I have to visit the Mint Karaoke Lounge. I discovered the Mint during APE 2007, and I’ve been a handful of times since. I’ve talked about it here in The Karaoke Chronicles before, but it’s worth mentioning again, because the karaoke starts there at 4 p.m. every day! You gotta love a place that respects karaoke enough to kick it off during the waning daytime hours!

Anyway, so I hoped to get to the Mint Friday night, and even though we were exhausted after The Wine Barrel Incident, I cruised by to see if I could find easy parking, with no luck. Plus, navigating the labyrinth of one-way streets in San Francisco infuriated me after cruising at some 80 mph on the freeways, so I retired earlier than I’d hoped. Saturday night, after Brent and I went to the Cartoon Art Museum APE after party, I hoofed it up Market Street to the lounge, where the one free bar stool in the whole joint was waiting for me.



At first, I was intimidated by the crowd, because I thought the rotation might be too long to get a song in. I threw in my token “Piano Man,” anyway, and thankfully the KJ Frank runs a very tight stage, letting you know who’s going to sing three performers in advance, and playing songs right on top of each other if necessary. He’s also an excellent singer himself, so his passion fuels the vibe in the room. When I approached to sing, I had my drink in tow to swing along to Billy Joel’s piano, but Frank frowned against it. You can see how I mimed a drink, but fortunately the crowd was happy enough to oblige, and I received plenty of praise for my song choice. (My fave pic from the night is here; check out the guy in front worshipping me!) Of course, I let the crowd sing for me during that last chorus, as if the Mint itself was performing for me. As the name implies, it always leaves a great taste in my mouth.

Goin’ APE

APE, the reason we were in San Francisco in the first place, is unlike any other comic book show I’ve attended, and I’ve been to the San Diego Comic Con, the Los Angeles Comic Book and Science Fiction Convention, and trade shows like Frank & Sons in the City of Industry. At APE, the press is truly “alternative,” ranging from traditional zines, to hand drawn mini-comics, to homemade crafts and prints. I’ll be reviewing the stuff I picked up at my comics review blog A Comic A Day, and I’m generally pretty pleased with the haul.

Setting up the K.O. Comix table is always a challenge, because we want our booth to clearly exhibit our work in a visually appealing way. In the past, I’ve brought props to emphasize our books’ themes, like a little Christmas tree to highlight our comic Little Christmas, but this time we kept it simple by stacking up pure product. Dog Town was the centerpiece as far as I was concerned, it being the newest and most professional piece on the table, and I pushed my 2009 Poetry Zine Series for free, just to get that stuff out there. Still, like any other con, I’m talking about comics getting into the hands of consumers, so what makes APE so different?



The simple answer: At APE, there’s no middle man. It’s the artist standing behind his or her work, with potential fans passing by, and sometimes the artist only has a second or two to make an impression. At other cons, retailers or office jockeys push product, which is critical to the industry, but at APE and other zine-friendly shows, the material is usually hot off the press, or straight out of the copy machine at work, into readers’ hands. It’s pure, and brutal, if you’ve poured your heart into something passers-by won’t give a second glance. In that case, pricing is critical; Brent and I both agree that our books are priced to sell, not to make a profit. The assumption is, interest now generates business and profit later. If we actually pursued K.O. Comix with some consistency, we might succeed with that model. Other creators, I encourage you to try it!

So, I’d be remiss not to mention, check out the K.O. Comix blog, and my tangible creative efforts at the KaraokeFanboy Press blog! At the very least, you’ll see some pretty pictures!

Fortunately, the drive home was uneventful. No wine barrels, no shameless homeless folks, no karaoke, no peddling comics. Just two guys worn out by an eclectic weekend. Of course, San Francisco doesn’t charge you to leave the city, which would be equally profitable, but the message is clear . . . Get out! Just like a nightclub, whenever your personal closing time arrives, they want you up and out of there, probably to make room for more folks in such a cramped space. I’m usually ready to leave anyway. I don’t know if I could live in a city so densely populated -- but I certainly like visiting as frequently as possible. I don’t mind the cover charge -- because the memories are priceless.

Route 66: Size Matters

For many, the mythology of Route 66 is larger than life, but those that have actually traversed the Mother Road know that some of it really is. Large, I mean. Nowadays, we like our excesses as small as possible, like our cell phones or smart cars, but when Route 66 was an active American highway, we commemorated its grand scope and vision with things just as grand in size. Even in the relatively short stretch between San Bernadino, California and Holbrook, Arizona, my girlfriend and I beheld plenty of pompous pavement props, now chronicled here! I've decided to categorize them as either "the wonders of the world" or "the marvels of man," as these enormous attractions must've been built with the intention of celebrating something significant . . . right?

The Wonders of the World



One of the first "giant alerts" my girlfriend and I encountered was Bono's Historic Orange Stand, which, contrary to popular belief, does not belong to U2's lead singer but instead the late Bono family, who owned and operated an Italian restaurant next door. Other "giant orange" stands were opened by Frank E. Pohl in the '20s and '30s and celebrated the region's rich bounty, but this is one of the few that remain standing, complete with Route 66, ahem, appeal. Yeah, sorry about that.

The next few images depict the virtual zoo of enormous animals that inhabit the Route 66 roadside, from the Polly Gas parrot outside of Barstow, to the sadly squashed roadrunner of the Roadrunner's Retreat and Restaurant near Amboy.







Of course, my favorite of these quiche creatures is the jackrabbit outside of the aptly named Jack Rabbit Trading Post in Joseph City, Arizona. Billboards boast the bodacious bunny for miles, inviting spectators to ride the rabbit, so I couldn't resist. Surely if you've been looking to fulfill your giant jackrabbit needs, the sign outside of the trading post tells you where such satisfaction awaits: "Here it is!"

What better way to bookend Route 66's world wonders than with another plant, though unlike Bono's faux fruit, this one is real -- oh, at least it was. The world's largest petrified tree is also in Joseph City, though I don't think you can ride it.

The Marvels of Man

This batch of towering tourist traps truly celebrates humanity's rich history along Route 66, starting with the Madonna of the Trail and Ye Bridle Path in Upland. The former honors the colonial women damned to hear the cries of their children while exploring the Old West, the latter the upward climb to the region's neighboring mountains.

In the context of Old West exploration, this magic lamp might seem out of place, but hear me out on this one. What better way to epitomize how those old explorers' wishes of Manifest Destiny were coming true than building a restaurant/bar with a genie's home out front? You're welcome, Magic Lamp Inn.



The rest of the attractions we encountered were definitively Old West, celebrating the stereotypical culture of cowboys and Indians. For instance, behold this totem pole outside of the Grand Canyon Caverns in Peach Springs, Arizona -- and more importantly consider the bold political statement my gorgeous girlfriend is making. Indeed, to the untrained, even cynical eye, one might assume she is desecrating the spirit of the totem by simulating a pole dance, but the socially analytical mind would realize she is merely physically commenting on how contemporary accounts of history have unnecessarily sexualized Native American culture through such sultry depictions like Dances With Wolves or even Disney's Pocahontas. Yes. She is just that brilliant.







Two of my favorite stops on our trip were Two Guns and Twin Arrows in Arizona. The Two Guns site is little more than the remnants of an old theme park (and debris-ridden, so beware, drivers!), and the Twin Arrows, thankfully recently renovated, mark the spot of an old trading post/cafe, but considering their close proximity to one another, my inner child can't help but think that the two represent the timeless conflicts of the Old West. Perhaps, back in the day, giant cowboys and giant Indians fought in this desert stretch, with these the only signs of that lofty legendary battle. Maybe that's why they call it "high" noon -- because these old icons were just that tall . . . or you'd have to be high to think of such a thing.



Finally, the best way to end this journal of our gigantic journey is here, at the Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, Arizona. These wigwams are truly larger than life, and for a price as reasonable as any other roadside motel, you can sleep in one! In a way, residing in a wigwam if only for one night helps the weary traveller feel as big as the other giants along Route 66, becoming in some small way a part of the grand mythology that consumes America's Mother Road. I was certainly grateful for our stay in that strange round room, which reminded me that no matter how far we've come from Route 66's rich history, no matter how our tastes have seemingly shrunk over the years, some things eventually come full circle. High hopes for humanity, indeed . . .

Route 66: Ghosts of the Past

To prove how haunting a trip along the southwest stretch of Route 66 could be, just this morning, almost two weeks to the very hour my girlfriend and I embarked on the journey, I sat down in Starbucks to chronicle the creepy places we encountered when "(Get Your Kicks on) Route 66" began to play in the store. When the song was composed and originally recorded, it celebrated the rife culture along America's Mother Road, but considering some of its more abandoned and dilapidated areas now, the tune has become a spooky echo from the past. I experienced some of these spectres firsthand, and I dare journal them for public consumption, lest these ghosts haunt me forever!



Of course, one needn't hear a "boo" to feel a place is haunted, if only by its own once-glorious past. Places like the McDonald's museum in San Bernandino, where the McDonald brothers opened their first hamburger stand, or Roy's Motel and Cafe in Amboy are actually still inhabited by moderate business and infrequent tourism, but they are by no means the attractions they once were. Consider these signs I found behind the McDonald's museum (pic above), or the sheer desolate desert behind my beautiful girlfriend and me at Roy's. If these places were haunted, even the ghosts would get bored.

The Arizona desert is much more tantalizing in its paranormal possibilities, starting east of Kingman in Valentine, Arizona, appropriately named for those in love with creepy places. The Valentine Indian School was built to serve the Native American kids in northern Arizona (the white kids had a separate schoolhouse, of course) and ultimately closed in 1969. Any school yard can be scary at night, with its creaky swings and jangling tetherball chains, but this abandoned school yard made our skin crawl in the bright light of morning. I found a hole in the schoolhouse's barricaded door and took a peek inside to find the usual debris and vandalism, but the thought of a room full of wide-eyed ghost-children still waiting for that final recess bell to ring was enough to run me out of there. Lesson learned.

Further east of Valentine and Flagstaff, Two Guns and Twin Arrows await, both perfect hideouts for Batman's enemy Two-Face, if even his deformed face wasn't a sight for sore eyes in comparison. These two places are best remembered as current homes for some of Route 66's beloved "big things," to be featured in another blog post, but I'd be remiss not to include an interior pic of the Twin Arrows Trading Post I took when trespassing. I hoped to find an old menu or something, but vandals (and daring historians, I hope) had cleaned the place out of anything valuable or useful. Still, with some of the original tables in place on top of that retro-checkered floor, I imagined what this cafe must've been like in its heyday, the kind of hoppin' '50s restaurant that modern franchises like Johnny Rockets can only hope to emulate. Unfortunately, Twin Arrows took its final bow in the late '90s, the only thing left on its menu now a boo-plate special.

The Ellas Frontier Trading Post (with its adjacent Red Arrows Camp) is a similar gaping hole to the past, less protected and revered but equally interesting in its ruin.

The grand finale for anyone ghost hunting in northern Arizona lingers in the Holbrook Courthouse, which also features a museum and the original prison cell that once housed some sixteen inmates at a time. With sentences that could've lasted as long as 20 years, these guys had plenty of time to draw some of the murals my girlfriend dutifully captured on camera. Further, according to our impromptu tour guide Randy, the courthouse is still home to seven ghosts, one of whom, Mary, was a prostitute sentenced to hang for killing an abusive john. In solitary, she hastened her fate and hung herself; now she has her own bedroom in the museum, where Randy apparently engages her in conversation. Free accommodations and friendship? Who says crime doesn't pay?





To conclude, I'm compelled to distinguish between my first Route 66 post and this second installment, as both ghosts and dinosaurs are creatures from the past. The difference is, the faux dinosaurs we encountered along Route 66 were present as an homage to something long gone. These spooky places still exist in this perpetual stage of epilogue to their former glory, the desert wind that blows through the cracks in their boarded windows a last gasp of life. They're prisoners to the past, students of isolation, traded away for paved progress. You don't have to believe in ghosts to feel that these attractions are still haunted -- if only by the lives they lived.

Route 66: Endangered, but Not Extinct!

Route 66 is like America's embarrassing childhood photo album, full of painfully awkward images of its wanton youth. Perhaps that's why John Steinbeck decided to call Route 66 "the Mother Road" in the classic I've never read, The Grapes of Wrath, because despite their seeming futility America's mom simply refuses to throw away these precious old memories. My girlfriend and I recently traveled the stretch from San Bernadino, California to Holbrook, Arizona, and despite our aspirations to finish the route someday, I feel very satisfied with this definitively southwestern experience, perfectly capturing the past of these two states I've called home for so long.



While many of the well-documented attractions along Route 66 essentially amount to abandoned ruins, these sites are thankfully only endangered -- not extinct, like the dozens of dinosaurs you'll find along this eastern-bound trip. To best chronicle this experience, I've decided to treat this trip topically, versus geographically as many other explorers and travellers have. After all, I'm simply a casual observer, enraptured by the more pedestrian attractions, whereas others enjoy digging up the mysterious histories of these exotic Americana roots. No, I'm a much simpler man; show me some dinosaurs, tell me some ghost stories, give me an old-fashioned ice cream, and I'm happy. Perhaps that's why Route 66 has endured for so long . . . as much as it exploits 20th century America's youth, it unabashedly reminds us of our own.

After a mildly inspiring initial encounter with metal-made dinosaurs in San Bernadino, our next 'saurus-sighting was in Peach Springs, Arizona, at the Grand Canyon Caverns. I'll talk about the caverns in a later post, but I was most impressed with how the air one breathes in this underground rocky wonderland comes from a crack in the Grand Canyon some sixty miles away, hence the caverns' name. At the entrance to the park, this googily-eyed dinosaur welcomes you.



Then, once parked near the restaurant and caverns' entrance, this towering T-Rex snarls at you, a sly smile that says, "Ah, nothin's tastier than a tourist's wallet!"



I actually felt sorry for this fella, though, who brought new meaning to the phrase, "Look, Ma, no hands!" I wonder, did he try to touch the meteor that felled his long lost brothers? Or were Jurassic veterinarians just that bad at declawing pets?



My love affair with these roadside raptors and whatnot ended in Holbrook, Arizona, where the remains of a dinosaur theme park are preserved at this rock store. Thankfully, I had my dinosaur theme park T-shirt on to celebrate the sighting. As you can see, at my girlfriend's behest, I tried to kiss one of the dinosaurs good-bye, but he craned his neck away. He wasn't having it. Perhaps in his carnivorous heart he knew, "This isn't good-bye. Oh, you'll be back."

Bat-er Cooler

Havin' fun in the office.

Cool Bat-Merch

Thanks for the hand with this one, Ruthie.

Kids Make the Darnedest Things

I confiscated this lovely item this morning:



These pictures are intentionally blurry for the sake of national security, so if you can't tell, it's a dual slingshot: one made by a paperclip, the other by a creatively reconstructed mechanical pencil and a pen shaft. Masking tape holds the whole thing together surprisingly well, assuring equally surprising distance and accuracy.



My friends and I used to make things like this (I wasn't capable of this kind of craftsmanship), which resulted in The Mrs. Long's 6th Grade Class Great Staple War of 1990, but in light of recent headlines (recent being, like, this week), how can I condone this kind of homemade weaponry, despite its ingenuity? Is a paperclip taped to a mechanical pencil a gateway weapon to something more, say, automatic?

Police State

Saw this sticker riding my bike home last week.

Another Angle of My Office

Put a camera in the hands of a child and you'll see things you see everyday in a way you've never seen them before. Here's the southwest corner of my office, right over the old recliner.

Wil Stood By Me

Last Wednesday, I braved Los Angeles traffic and Hollywood parking to meet Wil Wheaton at Meltdown Comics on Sunset Blvd. Wil and a few other writers are touring to promote their latest project, TokyoPop's Star Trek: The Manga: Kakan ni Shinkou. Though a bit late and seemingly disheveled by traffic, too, Wil was kind enough to pose promptly for this picture with me. Regarding the comic, here's a quote from my review, hopefully soon to appear in full at Geek in the City:

Featuring five stellar short stories starring the Original Series crew, Kakan ni Shinkou is a meaty volume in more ways than one; all of the stories are surprisingly long but not unnaturally lengthy (one of my criticisms of the serialized manga format), and most of them proudly include TOS standards like the meaningless death of a Red Shirt, a morality tale shrouded in a space-faring adventure, and most importantly the definitive interplay between Roddenberry’s trinity, Kirk, Spock, and McCoy. While they often steal the show, the rest of the cast make their presence known, as well; Uhura even saves the day in one installment, thanks in small part to Nurse Chapel’s encouragement. This volume boldly goes exactly where the Original Series has gone before, but, this time, we wouldn’t have it any other way.

If you happen to read this today and are in Southern California, Wil and the crew are appearing at Golden Apple Comics in West Hollywood tonight. I couldn't recommend the comic more, and what better way to celebrate The Next Generation's twentieth anniversary than an autograph from TV's Ensign Crusher?

An Awesome Picture of Me . . .

. . . in my office. Thanks, Ruthie.